


The Least of His Children

by JayRain



Series: New Magic and Old Gods [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Brothers, Chant of Light, Chantry Issues, Dragon Age - Freeform, Dysfunctional Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied M/M, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Theo Trevelyan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-21 23:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6062344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayRain/pseuds/JayRain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before fate made him the Inquisitor, Theo Trevelyan was the youngest child of six, and the third son. Destined for a life of Chantry service, Theo longs for more and grows to resent his family and their insistence on clinging to the Maker's will. But just maybe he's not the only one finding it difficult to accept commitment to Free Marches tradition in the name of the Chantry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Least of His Children

_Chapter 1: The Least of His Children_

It wasn’t customary for the man of the house to be present at a birth. But Cordelia had been struggling for more than a day, and she was nearing the age at which most women were unable to bear children; and those that tried often died in childbirth. Bann Alick Trevelyan insisted on being at her side, even when the midwives tried, as respectfully as possible, to shoo him away.

It had been five years since the birth of their youngest daughter, Thisbe, and it would have seemed that Cordelia’s childbearing had passed. When she discovered last winter that she was with child a sixth time, the news was met with both joy and trepidation. Both Cordelia and her husband had heard stories of older mothers attempting to birth children, especially after a long span between pregnancies.

Another contraction passed and still Cordelia had not yet pushed. She was pale and sweaty. Alick dipped a cloth into a basin of cool water and wiped her face. She tried to smile as she shifted in the bed. “I hope it’s another girl,” she said. “Nothing will ever replace Maranda though.”

He stroked her forehead. “Maranda isn’t gone, love. She’s happy in the Circle. Though I’d at least hope we don’t have another mage,” he said. Even though he smiled, he felt his gut twist when he thought about having to give up another child to tradition. Even though he knew his oldest daughter was safe in the Circle, learning to use her powers in a way she could never learn at home, it had been difficult the day he’d called the templars to take her. Maranda smiled bravely and said she understood. And her position as a Trevelyan daughter afforded her privileges most mages never received. They were allowed to visit her and she sent regular letters informing them of her progress.

But her bedroom had never been changed, and Gwyneth and Thisbe still shared a room in the manor even with their eldest sister gone this last year and a half. “You can’t expect the other girls to share a room with a third sister, you know,” he teased gently.

“I know. I’m trying. I just didn’t expect another so soon after she left…or at all…” Her voice trailed off and her eyes widened. “Brecca!” she called. Her hands balled up the sheets and her knuckles were white. “I need to push!”

Brecca the midwife appeared from almost out of nowhere, and with mere glances and gestures her assistants were stoking the fire higher and bringing more hot water and rags. She pulled back the clammy sheet and looked. “The baby’s crowning, my lady,” she said with an encouraging smile.

Alick held out his hand and Cordelia gripped it tightly. He’d spent time in his youth arm wrestling in taverns, but no grip was as strong as that of his wife in labor. Still, he welcomed her grasp. As she groaned and pushed, eyes squeezed shut and breath coming in hitching gasps, he felt that solid grip as proof that she was still alive. That childbirth was not going to take her from him.

Matthias, his oldest, was twelve and a serious boy, eager to please; the Circle would care for Maranda. But Gwyneth was seven, Gavriel six, Thisbe five. And then there would be an infant. Yes, as the ruling family of Ostwick they had plenty of servants, wet nurses, and tutors. But the children needed their mother. Even with the many staff members of the house Cordelia was warm and involved with rearing her children.

 _Maker, preserve my wife,_ he prayed. _Please bring her through this unscathed, and the child as well._ He wanted to pray that it would not be another mage; but he knew better than to ask too much. One must always approach the Maker with reverence and humility. A non-mage daughter was his hope, and even though the Maker knew his heart, Alick knew that he himself had to be open to the Maker’s will.

Cordelia pushed again. And again. There was bleeding, but Brecca assured him it was normal. And then Cordelia pushed one last time and the slippery pink infant slipped from her and into Brecca’s waiting hands. The midwife turned it over and gently slapped its bottom, and the child gasped and began crying. Assistants brought warm water to bathe the baby; Cordelia shuddered again and delivered the afterbirth, which an assistant quickly scooped up to dispose of.

Brecca tied off the babe’s cord and sliced through it with a small knife before swaddling and handing the child to Cordelia. She’d delivered the Trevelyans’ other five children, and while she’d always been efficient and professional, she was rarely this silent. “Is there something wrong?” Alick asked, heart thumping. Surely there was no way of knowing she was a mage _this_ young; Maranda hadn’t manifested her power until she was nine years of age. Was it possible to sense the magic this young?

Cordelia gazed down at the baby’s face. “We need to name her,” she said with a smile. Her eyes held the quality of one just woken from a lovely dream and still clinging to it as reality.

Alick glanced at Brecca. “It is a girl, yes?” he asked. It only made sense; he had his heir. And should anything happen to Matthias, Gavriel was there to take up the mantle of succession.

Brecca licked her lips and rinsed her hands off in a basin of clean water before pushing her hair off her sweaty forehead. The room suddenly felt too hot. “It is a boy, my lord,” she said after a moment.

The third Trevelyan son had latched onto his mother’s breast. Cordelia, so accustomed to nursing, suddenly looked stiff and uncomfortable. “A third son?” she whispered. She blinked rapidly. “Alick, what do we…”

Alick looked between his wife’s stunned face and the clueless, milk-drunk face of his son. “The Trevelyans have always served the Chantry loyally,” he said at last with an effort to smile. “I prayed for the Maker’s will to be done. You’ve survived childbirth against the odds, and we have a son. We have little choice but to continue our service to the Maker.” Tears welled up in Cordelia’s eyes. No doubt she was tired and emotional from the birth; that’s what he told himself, anyway. “Things won’t happen for some time yet,” he said gently. “Nurse the baby. Enjoy him.”

“Do you… do you wish to hold him?” she asked as she prepared to switch to her other breast.

“The other children will wish to know,” Alick said, forcing a smile before kissing her on the cheek and leaving the room.

He did not look back. He couldn’t watch. He did not ask a servant to round up his other children. Instead he headed to the small family chapel off the main gardens. It was a lovely early autumn day, hardly a cloud in the blue sky, and still fairly warm. A breeze blew off the ocean and the air smelled sweet and salty.

At this time of day the chapel was empty, for which he was grateful. He stopped to light a stick of incense before the small marble effigy of Andraste, an heirloom that had been in the Trevelyan family for generations. Alick knelt before Andraste, Bride of the Maker. So often she had interceded for him. After Maranda went away he’d prayed that his other children would not be mages. So far neither of the boys, nor the girls, had shown signs.

It wouldn’t matter if this sixth child manifested magic or not. He was the third son. In the Free Marches the Chantry dictated more than just the fate of mages. It was an age-old custom that the third son, and any subsequent sons after that, was sent to the Chantry for service. Two of Alick’s younger brothers served as templars. But it was also Marcher politics. It was a way of avoiding succession issues, while providing the Chantry with her templars and brothers. Often the youngest daughters were also sent to become lay sisters when suitable marriages could not be arranged. He knew only too well what the Chantry demanded, and how she functioned as the unspoken partner in politics.

But the Maker’s will had to be done. Magic must not rule over man, but serve him; and to accomplish that, the Chantry needed devoted templars, brothers, and sisters. The Ostwick Circle functioned as well as it did because of the current customs.

Alick looked up at Andraste’s serene marble face, cool and immutable, meant to be peaceful. “I’ve done my duty. I’ve given my daughter to you so she might learn to serve mankind,” he said. “Why a third son? Why torment me?” He folded his arms on the altar before closing his eyes and resting his head. With Maranda it was different; she could write home, they could visit on occasion. But once a child became a Chantry initiate or a templar recruit, that was it. They belonged to the Chantry, and the Chantry did not easily relinquish what she’d claimed as hers.

For a moment he actually hoped this son would be a mage. He’d thought he would hate the pain of another mage child. But the thought of giving up a healthy, non-magic little boy, only because tradition dictated it, hurt.

But the Trevelyans were servants of the Maker, devoted to his will and accepting the Chantry’s role in it.

It would be some years yet before his third son and youngest, likely last child would be sent to the Chantry. Years of watching the boy grow and learn and play with his siblings and discover Ostwick’s treasures and secrets: only to be sent to either train as a templar or be educated as a brother, where that childhood would be erased as frivolous and meaningless in light of the supposed joy found in service to the Maker.

“I want to serve the Maker’s will,” he murmured. “Please, Andraste. Please, Maker. Give me strength. I need it more than ever.”


	2. The Maker Shall Be Her Beacon

_Chapter 2: The Maker Shall Be Her Beacon_

 

“He’s not a _baby_ anymore.” Thisbe pouted, glaring at her four-year-old brother perched on their mother’s lap.

“Shush, darling,” Cordelia said, holding little Theodane closer to her. It was a warm summer day, but he didn’t struggle out of her hug. “You’re nine, Thisbe; you’re a young lady. You and Gwyn must behave as you’ve been taught.” Thisbe let out a huge sigh. Of course she was perfectly aware of the fact that others in the Chantry were watching her. She was always aware of the most effective ways to get attention. She’d be able to make her own smart match when she was of marriageable age. Cordelia was both frightened and impressed by it. Where Thisbe got her attitude from, Cordelia would never know; she did know that if they’d been Orlesian, they’d have had quite a Game player on their hands.

The Revered Mother ascended to the pulpit and the congregation rose. Cordelia shifted Theo to her hip and he rested his head on her shoulder, quietly watching the Revered Mother with his studious green eyes. He was a quiet child, always watching and listening; she’d worried about him initially, but realized that with five elder siblings all clamoring with one another and with their parents, little Theo probably felt lost or overwhelmed in all the chatter.

Revered Mother Marya prayed from the Canticle of Benedictions and they sat after that to hear her sermon. Theo nestled his head into his mother’s neck and listened intently. Next to her, Thisbe was swinging her legs and playing with the hem of her dress; Gwyneth was sitting straight as a rail, remembering her etiquette lessons. Gavriel was slouched down, arms crossed, but was at least trying to pay attention; and Matthias was, as always, a younger version of his devout father. If only Maranda was here.

Cordelia held Theo closer. She knew too well what his future held. Maranda had been taken from them so suddenly that Cordelia had hardly had time to say goodbye; at least she knew what awaited her youngest and was determined to cling to him as long as possible and treasure every moment she could. If that meant letting him sit on her lap, or holding him so close when he was nearly five years old, so be it.

She rocked him gently through the sermon and by the end he’d fallen asleep. It took a bit of cajoling to wake him as they filed out of their front row pew and left first, so that they might greet the other congregants of Ostwick. Theo blinked as he woke and held fast to her hand as they left. Cordelia felt the eyes on her: amazement that she’d survived the birth at an advanced age, but pity that it was a third son. Still she held her head high and smiled. The less Theo knew about his eventual place, the better.

The Revered Mother joined them and blessed the people as Bann Trevelyan shook hands and smiled and asked after his people. “Your son pays attention to the Chant nicely,” she said to Cordelia as the stream of parishioners thinned. “Have you started him with tutors yet?”

Cordelia glanced at Theo, who sat in a corner hugging his knees to his chest and eyeing the people who passed by him. “We’re hoping for another Chantry brother to tutor him soon,” Cordelia said. Not entirely a lie; the request had been drafted up. It just hadn’t been sent. “Gavriel’s progressed in his studies, and the girls have their lay sisters and etiquette tutors. It’s been some time between Thisbe and Theodane.”

“I have no doubt that he will be well educated by the time we receive him,” Mother Marya said with a smile. “His uncles have risen highly in the templar forces. The Trevelyans are easily the Ostwick Chantry’s greatest asset.”

Cordelia smiled, even though she felt hollow at the compliment. She nodded her thanks and excused herself. She believed in the Maker, but she also was a mother who loved her children. It shouldn’t have been so hard to balance the two.

* * *

 

It wasn’t every day that Alick’s younger templar brothers received leave to visit, so when they did it was an occasion for celebration in the Trevelyan household. Cadan and Declan had shed their heavy armor in favor of light leathers, though it was only a matter of time before Matthias had convinced his uncle Declan to put on some padding so he could show off what he’d been learning with the sword.

“He’s eager,” Cadan told Alick, who stood at the edge of the practice ring, watching his son. “He’s your son, through and through.” He leaned against the fence, watching Matthias’s movements. He was clearly going through the paces the weapons master had taught him, but it was also clear that he practiced and took them seriously.

“I know what you’re thinking, Cay, and no,” Alick said. “He’s the heir to Ostwick.”

“Is Cadan trying to recruit again?” Cordelia asked with a smile as she joined them. “Why doesn’t your Knight-Captain just promote you already?”

“Cordy,” he said with a grin and gave her a hug. He glanced behind her. “This must be your youngest. Theodore, was it?”

“Close enough,” Alick said, still watching Matthias practice.

“Theodane,” Cordelia said, keeping her irritation at bay. She held out her hand to her tiny shadow. “Theo, this is your uncle Cay.” He clung to her skirt and peered up at his uncle. His face still held the round softness of childhood, but there were signs of the strong angles that marked her other two sons and her husband. His soft chestnut hair fell into his eyes and he didn’t bother to brush it away.

Cadan knelt down. “Theo is it?” he asked with a broad grin. “Are you going to learn sword fighting someday too?”

Theo peeked out to see his oldest brother, twelve years his senior, going through his paces. “I don’t think so,” he said after a moment of thought. He looked up at his father, an imposing figure against the blue sky. He slipped away from his mother and stood next to Alick, still staring up at him. His small hand reached up to tug at the hem of his father’s tunic, but Alick looked down at him with a warning look in his eye. The boy looked down at the ground and stepped away.

“Theo, go find your sisters and get ready for dinner,” Cordelia said, stroking his soft hair, but he flinched and ducked away from her before taking off at a run toward the manor. “Alick…” she began, even as she glanced nervously over at Cadan. Her brother-in-law, however, had always been courteous and intuitive, and he excused himself to join Declan and Matthias in the yard.

“You baby him too much.” Alick did not look at her. “He’s nearly five. He shouldn’t be clinging to your skirts like a toddler.”

“You don’t pay him enough mind,” she countered. “He only wants you to acknowledge him… would it hurt so much for you to look at him? Or even, Maker forbid, smile?”

He sighed. “What’s the point?” he asked after a moment of tense silence between them. “I’ll only lose him in another few years.”

“Cadan and Declan come to visit,” Cordelia pointed out. “Your own lord father sought after their well-being after they joined the templar order, right up until he died!” She took a deep breath; she was treading on awkward ground. While Alick would never strike her or even reprimand her, it was still difficult to convince him of her feelings. “If you’re going to practically deny his existence, we may as well send him away right now,” she snapped.

“They don’t take initiates from noble families that young,” he said. He rubbed his eyes. “Maker’s breath, Cor, don’t you think I’ve thought of this already? How much easier it would have been if… well, if anything else had been the case.” He sighed. “He may yet turn out to be a mage. It’s not optimal, but he would be with Maranda.”

“And you’d call the templars yourself to take him, too,” she said. His silence said more than his words ever could. “You’re the Bann of Ostwick,” she told him. “Is it so difficult for you to consider dispensing with tradition? Perhaps forming a new one?”

“What makes me above the Maker’s will?” he asked. “And do you know how that would make me, make our whole family, appear to the rest of the Marches? We’d be seen as weak, as opportunists, as selfish.” He turned to her and took her gently by the shoulders. “Andraste gave up her very life for the Maker’s will,” he said, gazing into his wife’s eyes. “We’re being asked to give our son to the Maker’s will. I… I think we can handle that.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Let the Maker be your beacon, Cor,” he said softly, and kissed her cheek.

Cordelia tried to smile, if only for the sake of keeping the peace, but she could hardly look at him when he got like this. She understood his conviction; but she hated it all the same. All she could think was that, mage or not, the Chantry would take another one of her children from her.


	3. The Darkness Creeps

_Chapter 3: The Darkness Creeps_

 

“Papa doesn’t like me.”

Gavriel nearly dropped his quill and luckily didn’t drip anything on his parchment. “Maker, kid, you scared me! How’d you get so good at sneaking up on people?” he asked as he turned to see his youngest sibling hovering in the doorway of the study. Sometimes it was easy to forget he was around; Theo was quiet and moved like a ghost, comfortable in shadows and corners. Gavriel smiled and waved his brother in.

Theo hesitated and looked around as if expecting someone to reprimand him, but Gavriel scooted over and patted the bench beside him. “Come on, we can do schoolwork together,” he said, taking out fresh parchment and a smaller quill. “You can practice your letters so you can impress your tutor when he arrives.”

Theo’s face lit up and he joined his older brother at the desk. They both worked quietly for a few minutes. “Why do you think Father doesn’t like you?” Gavriel asked at last.

“He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t talk to me. I don’t think he wants me.” Theo stared at his parchment where his lopsided and scratchy letters were taking form. He frowned, but would not look at Gavriel.

“That’s silly, kid,” Gavriel said, setting down his quill. “Father… he’s busy. He’s the Bann of all of Ostwick; it’s a big job and he has to worry about a lot of things. And then he has six kids on top of it all,” he added, gently nudging Theo’s shoulder.

The boy didn’t smile. “Why do kids get sent to the Chantry?”

Gavriel shrugged. “To serve the Maker? I dunno.”

“Thisbe says… I mean, I heard somewhere that’s where kids go when their parents don’t want them anymore.” He stared at the floor and swung his feet back and forth. He gave a worried sidelong glance at Gavriel. “Really, I didn’t hear it from Thisbe.”

“Thisbe says a lot of things that are tripe,” Gavriel said, shaking his head in disgust. “If kids are sent to the Chantry it’s because they can serve the Maker.” He pulled his little brother into a rough hug and ruffled his hair. Theo giggled and pushed away. “You know? I think Thisbe is just jealous.”

Theo shrugged. “Papa knows she’s there… he doesn’t pretend she’s not. Why would she be jealous?”

“Because before you came along? She was the baby in the family,” Gavriel said with an exaggerated look around, pretending he was afraid of eavesdroppers. “She got all the attention.”

“But Papa—“

“Attention from Mum,” Gavriel said quickly. “Thisbe’s a little princess who doesn’t want to grow up,” he said with a grin that Theo returned after a moment. “Here. Try your letters again,” he said, rather than belabor the point with Theo. He helped adjust his brother’s little hand on the quill and showed him how to make the trickier letters, and eventually they went to working in silence.

Theo set down his quill after a bit. “Do you think Papa wants to see what I can do?” he asked Gavriel.

Gavriel looked at the letters, shaky and scratchy, but there was definitely effort poured into it. He didn’t understand what was behind their father’s cool attitude toward the youngest child anymore than Theo did. “I think he might,” he said at last. “You’re going to have a good head start when your tutor finally shows up,” he added. Theo only smiled and took the paper in his hand before dashing out of the room.

* * *

The Trevelyan manor house at Ostwick was far from ancient, but it still had dark corridors and back passages unknown to anyone but the servants, and even then the current staff rarely used them. They were part of the household, accepted and treated well. And sometimes, it seemed they were even more visible than the youngest Trevelyan son.

He didn’t have a tutor yet; and his mother spent her mornings doing needlework with his sisters. Matty and Gave had lessons and work to do before they were allowed out to the practice yards to spar or drill, or to the stables to ride. Bann Trevelyan did whatever Banns did during the day. It was probably important.

As a result Theo had little supervision and had started to learn the secrets of his home. The back corridors were dark, but he wasn’t afraid of the dark. His family believed in the Maker, and the Maker was all about light. He slipped through the dim passageways, quiet as he could be. It was a game he played with himself: if he couldn’t hear his footsteps, no one else could, either.

He rolled up his paper so it would not flutter and make noise, and made his way from the studies past the kitchens. He hurried by uncomfortably. They were always loud and bright and hot, even though the smells were often wonderful. He’d found a passage from the kitchens to his father’s office last week. The discovery was the highlight of his young life to this point, and whenever he could he would slip into the passages and sit outside the secret door into the office.

It was usually quiet, and Theo would never have dreamed of actually going in. Somehow, just sitting there and knowing his father was on the other side of the wall was comforting enough.

He sat to the side of the actual door and unrolled his paper. He was getting better with his letters. Maybe if he pleased his tutor Papa would be proud of him. Maybe he should slip his paper under the door and leave it for Papa to find.

“…don’t want Theo to be a templar.” He looked up. He didn’t usually hear Mum in there. “I won’t have him hooked on lyrium. I don’t care if Cadan and Declan seem fine, they’re templars and they’re on lyrium.”

“Well, the options are fairly limited otherwise.” Papa’s voice. “We may get no say. They may decide they need him for the order.”

“You can ask them not to!”

“My own father didn’t have the sway to keep my brothers out of the templars!” Papa was angry. Theo bit on his knuckles to keep quiet, even though he was already silent, quieter than even the bugs and mice that scurried through the dark places of the manor. “The sooner we begin educating him the better his chances at becoming a brother. We’ll do what we can and pray that it’s enough.”

Theo got to his feet and ran back the way he’d come. Somewhere along the way he dropped his paper, but he didn’t care.

The next day was the weekly Chantry service. For the first time anyone in the house could recall Theo stubbornly refused to go, and had to be dragged screaming from his room.

* * *

 

 “I know why you don’t like going to Chantry.”

He looked up from where he was playing in the hay pile behind the stables. His tutor was supposed to be here today. No one would think to look for him out here, and yet here Thisbe was, delicately holding her skirt so as not to trail it in the dirt. Her nose was wrinkled at the scent of the horses.

“Go away, Thisbe.” Theo dug himself deeper into the hay. It smelled sweet, like a little bit of leftover summer. Autumn had set in, his nameday had come and gone, and all he wanted was not to be found. Thisbe reached into the hay and grabbed his elbow. “Let go!” He tried to wrest his arm out of her grip, but she tugged and dragged him out of the hay. He tumbled into the dirt with pieces of straw clinging to him.

Thisbe jumped back to avoid being knocked into the dust herself. She wore a smug smile. “I’m going to tell Father where you are,” she said, staring down at him. “And he’s going to send you to the Chantry when he finds out!” She stuck her tongue out and he stared at her for one terrifying moment before she took off at a run, laughter echoing behind her.

Theo scrambled to his feet and ran after her. Her legs were longer, but she was wearing a dress and even with hiking up the skirt it slowed her down. “They won’t send me away!” he yelled, and she laughed even harder before ducking into a back door. He didn’t think; he just followed her. It was dim, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust enough to see. He blinked and realized he was alone. “Thisbe?” he asked, suddenly nervous.

He crept through the dank basement corridors. He hadn’t explored down here before, and normally he wouldn’t have been afraid, but Thisbe’s threats of telling on him for hiding, for playing…and the thought of being sent away… those scared him more than any darkness.

“There are spiders in the kids’ dorms in the Chantry,” she said from behind him, and he jumped.

“I don’t care about stupid spiders,” he told her.

“Prove it,” she said. In the dim light cast by the few narrow oblong windows she hardly looked like his sister; more like some cruel spirit with a teasing smile. She moved aside and he saw she was standing in front of an open door. A set of rickety wooden steps led down into total darkness.

“No,” he said.

“Scaredy cat.”

“I’m going to tell Mum,” he said, his last defense. He turned away from her, but she grabbed him by the collar and before he knew it, she’d flung him toward the doorway. He saw the darkness grow, a giant mouth ready to eat him whole. He grabbed for a railing to keep from pitching headlong down the stairs and when he caught himself and turned to scramble back up, he saw the door close.

A lock clicked. Thisbe laughed. Her laughter faded and he realized she was running away, leaving him alone.

Theo sat at the bottom of the stairs—the staircase was only a few steps down—and looked around at the blackness. Suddenly he realized it wasn’t darkness that was scary; it was when there was a little bit of light. Enough to cast shadows and change the familiar to something different, something he didn’t understand.

He began to cry.

Thisbe would tell Mum and Papa on him and they’d send him away. They didn’t want him anyway, right? He began to hiccup and his eyes burned and he felt like a little baby but that’s all he was anyway, right?

And then he heard the clicking.

He held his breath and looked around. Click. Hiss. Something brushed his hand and he scrambled to his feet and stumbled away. He ran into a wall and turned his back to it. Clickety-click.

_I don’t care about stupid spiders,_ he’d said. _Prove it,_ Thisbe had said before showing him the doorway.

He tried to find his way back to the stairs. If he yelled loud enough maybe they’d hear him. He moved slowly, even as his heart raced. His foot caught on something—rock? Wood? He fell forward and his teeth sank into his lip. And then there was a burning pain in his foot that made him start screaming.

Another hairy something brushed over his arm and he screamed louder. The Chantry had spiders. And this was his punishment for being afraid of the Chantry. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d be sent there now; Thisbe was telling on him right this moment. Or… she wasn’t. He’d be left down here to be wrapped up by the spiders. They’d suck him dry the way they did flies. There’d be nothing left but a dried up shell in the darkness.

Even when his parents found him a short time later and scolded him for hiding and fussed over the spider bite in his swollen foot he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Thisbe had been wrong, or that he hadn’t deserved this. The Maker may have been all about the light, but the darkness began to creep into his mind as he began to understand what it meant to be the third son.


	4. A Learned Child

_Chapter 4: A Learned Child_

“He reads incessantly,” Brother Madron said. “He writes well enough. But he still says very little.” The Chantry brother handed over a rolled parchment containing Theo’s most recent school work. “It’s mystifying. I was inclined to think he was simple at first, regardless of what you told me, but after three years? I wonder if I’m getting through to him or if he’s just toying with me.”

Bann Trevelyan stared out the window to the courtyard. Matthias was down there with his wife of nearly a year; already she was swelling with child, and the household was a whirlwind preparing for a new baby. It was odd to think that it was only eight years ago that they’d welcomed Theo. He winced at the pang in his chest and hoped Matthias would never have to know the pain of a mage child, or a third son.

He turned and took the parchment. Theo’s letters were well-formed, and he seemed to have a grasp of the simple Chant verses his tutor had asked him to interpret. “I hope he’s not badly behaved when with you?” he asked.

Brother Madron shook his head. “Not at all. Quite the opposite. He does as asked, he just doesn’t say much of anything.” The man fidgeted with his cuffs. “If he doesn’t like me, or if you’re displeased with me…”

“I’m sure everything is fine; this work shows that he is learning at least.” Bann Trevelyan set the scroll on his desk. “I assure you I’m not displeased. I will speak with my son and straighten this out.” He smiled and Brother Madron bowed and left.

Theo had always been a quiet, observant child, but ever since they’d found him in a basement storeroom, face bloody and tear streaked, foot swollen with spider venom, he’d been practically silent. He didn’t complain; didn’t cry; didn’t beg. Thisbe had said he didn’t want to have a new tutor and had run away and hidden when she tried to get him to come up to the house the day Brother Madron arrived. And while Alick knew his youngest daughter was crafty and sly (Maker, she could play the Game if he ever married her off to an Orlesian!) Theo said nothing to the contrary.

He looked back to the courtyard. Gavriel was practicing archery and Theo, on a break from his studies, watched. Alick sighed. It had been easy to avoid his son when Theo was younger. There was no denying he was a good boy, and it had only been around his fifth name day that there had been hints of misbehavior; and by then, it was Brother Madron’s duty to deal with him. But as he grew older and more unexpectedly sullen, perhaps Alick had to address things himself.

By the time he made it down to the courtyard someone had found a small, lightweight draw bow and Theo was hefting it in his hand. Gavriel resumed target practice, and Theo copied his older brother’s movements. Alick watched his two sons for a quiet moment. By eight years of age, Matty had been begging to learn the sword; Gavriel followed shortly after, and getting the both of them to learn archery, just on the principle that they were young noblemen and should have the skill, had been difficult. But Theo clutched at the bow and watched his brother and constantly shifted and modified his stance to emulate Gavriel.

“You’re improving,” he said when Gavriel had finished off his quiver. Theo started and blinked, holding the bow and looking guilty. “And you,” Alick said, making himself smile. “Do you think you’d like to learn to shoot?”

Theo stared at him. Just stared. His green eyes were slightly narrowed, his head cocked slightly to one side, as if he thought it might be a trick. “Yes?” he finally said. He clutched the small bow so tightly his knuckles were white, almost afraid it might be taken from him if this was not the right answer.

Alick nodded. “Come with me,” he said. He was about to tell Theo to hand the bow to the weapons master, but changed his mind. “You can bring it with you,” he said. For the first time in… well, years Theo’s face lit up with a genuine smile and he ran to keep up with his father.

They ended up back in Alick’s office. Alick sat behind his desk and Theo glanced at the chairs, but remained standing. He looked everywhere but at his father. “Brother Madron showed me your schoolwork,” he began, and the smile began to fade. “It’s good,” he said quickly. Maker, he had to make an effort. “You’re a smart boy. But he says you don’t say very much. Does he mistreat you?” Theo shook his head. “Do you dislike him?” Another headshake. “Well, he likes you and thinks you have some promise.”

“Really?”

It was so soft Alick almost had to lean forward, and at first, he wasn’t sure he’d actually heard it. He stared down at his youngest son, shyly glancing up from under a mop of dark hair and still clutching the little bow with both hands the way a younger child might hold a blanket or cherished toy.

“Really,” he said. “A learned child is a blessing upon his parents and unto the Maker,” he quoted. “If you keep up with your studies, and you start talking with Brother Madron, maybe we can start you with some proper archery lessons. Would you like that?”

“Very much, sir,” Theo said. He flicked his gaze up at his father, and then back to the bow in his hands. “Did… did he really say my work is good?”

“He did. Can you keep working hard and learn more?”

Theo nodded; his hair flopped over his forehead and he was actually smiling. Alick had forgotten what it was like to see that smile, and realized that Theo was missing a tooth, while others had grown in and looked too big for his mouth. His stomach twisted with guilt. His boy was growing up, and he’d turned a blind eye.

But Theo was not really his boy. He was on loan from the Maker, and that made his stomach twist even more. “Finish this week with Brother Madron; he will report your progress to me, and we will see about getting you started with the bow next week,” he said in a sterner voice, turning away from Theo so he didn’t have to see his son’s beaming face. “You may go.”

He heard Theo’s footsteps as he made it to the doorway. “Um, thank you, Father,” he said in a shy voice before scurrying away.

There was a moment of silence. “Don’t say anything, Cordelia,” Alick said with a sigh.

Cordelia slipped into the room and took a seat. “It was just nice to hear him talk again,” she said with a smile.

“But bribery?”

“He’s eight. He sees his brothers training and learning and being given opportunities while he sits with a tutor all day. It’s not a bad thing to encourage him.” She twisted her skirt in her hands. “If I only have another few years with him here I’d rather he be smiling, to be honest.”

* * *

 

Theo was certain Brother Madron had more work for him. The Chantry tutor _always_ had more work; Theo often wondered where it came from, how the man could just pull lessons and lectures from his head the way the fishermen pulled nets of fish during the migration seasons. It didn’t matter how much work Theo did accomplish—there would always be more, and now that he knew it, he didn’t quite care as much as he had two years ago.

Because he also knew now that none of it really mattered.

While his mornings and early afternoons were occupied with lessons, his late afternoons and any other time he could find were spent with his archery teacher, or just practicing on his own. In just two years he’d learned to outshoot his brothers, and even his teacher would laugh nervously if Theo shot too close to his own mark. It was the first time he felt he stood out in his family, like he was more than an afterthought.

And then he overheard Brother Madron talking to his father.

“I thought you wanted him to talk with you and learn from you,” Bann Trevelyan said.

“I did, but he goes through material almost faster than I can produce it, all so he can run off and play at archery!” The brother paced the study, clearly agitated. Theo peered through the crack in the secret passage door, holding his breath lest anyone catch on that he was listening. “You want him to be a Brother. We are an academic order, not a martial one.”

“I know this. But what harm does it do to let the boy enjoy himself?”

“There is but one Truth. All things are known to the Maker and He shall judge their lies,” Brother Madron quoted. Bann Trevelyan glared at the man with such anger that Theo nearly fled. But he remained; it was kind of nice to see the tutor so uncomfortable. “I don’t accuse of you of lying, Bann Trevelyan. I simply suggest that it’s doing more harm than good in the long run.”

“He is my son,” Bann Trevelyan finally said. “The consequences of my choices for him will be my responsibility. Your responsibility is to teach him. To train up a learned child.”

“Yes, Serah.”

And with that Theo slipped away through the secret passages he knew so well, and out into the glorious afternoon. He kept moving quickly, quietly, like a thief; though he’d stolen nothing but time. He did not stop at the boundaries of his family’s property. He found the road and ducked into the trees along the side, and kept going until he was in town.

But once there, he wasn’t sure what to do. He was ten; he hadn’t exactly planned out his escape very well. He glanced down at his jerkin, embroidered with the sigil of the Trevelyans. Many of these people would probably recognize him from the weekly Chantry services, and those that didn’t would recognize the house colors and sigil. He stripped it off and stuffed it behind a barrel and then stepped out into the main thoroughfare, just another kid in a gray tunic. It was a start.

So much of his life was spent trying to stand out, trying to get his father’s attention; but now he was grateful that he blended in. He made it through the open market with its stalls of fruit and grain and various trinkets for sale, and then up toward the craftsmen’s shops. It was harder to blend in here, but luckily the fletcher and bowyer’s shop was one of the first he came to. Maybe he could pretend to be an orphan, ask to be an apprentice. Hope luck was on his side.

He pushed open the heavy door and found himself facing Master Blain. His archery teacher.

Theo’s heart leapt into his throat and choked him. He tried to back out into the streets, but the door had closed behind him. He silently recited every curse word he’d learned from his brothers and from the servants, and thought maybe he should pray to the Maker for the repose of his soul…

“I wondered when you’d find you way down here,” Blain said with a grin.

Theo blinked and tried to catch his breath. “Is this a trick?”

Blain shook his head. “No trick. But there’s only so much I can teach you with the equipment you have up at the manor, and let’s just say I’ve been discouraged from doing too much to encourage your skills,” he said with a grin. “You have natural talent, but without the right equipment, that will only get you so far.” He waved for Theo to follow him.

“What do you mean?”

“It may be time for you to learn to make your own bow and arrows.”

_A learned child, my arse,_ Theo thought, following Master Blain deeper into the shop. _This_ was the kind of learning he could get behind.


	5. Blackest Envy

_Chapter 5: Blackest Envy_

_Three years later_

 

Theo had complained and whined and begged not to be sent out with Uncle Cadan and Uncle Declan, who had been given a short leave from the Templar Order. He’d stomped and stormed and pouted and thrown a temper tantrum that made his mother blush and his father scream at him. “You are _thirteen!_ You are still my child, and if you continue to behave like this I will tell your uncles not to bother bringing you home!”

The more he protested being sent on a hunting excursion, the more his father and Brother Madron couldn’t wait to get rid of him. And he was supposed to serve the Chantry anyway, so why did his father keep putting it off? That was almost worse than the empty threats.

In truth Theo was thrilled to finally be getting away for a bit, without having to find the time and opportunity to sneak away. Master Blain was crafty, and Theo learned more than just bow making and target practice with him. And he was also learning from Afton, the fletcher, how to make arrows. He did the best he could with the equipment on the manor grounds, but the more he worked with his own bow and arrows, the more the household weaponry felt clumsy and inadequate.

He waited until he and his uncles had ridden a few miles outside of the Trevelyans’ grounds before he stopped pouting and spurred his horse to a lively trot to ride alongside his uncles rather than trailing behind. They were headed north, through a pass in the Vimmark Mountains to camp and hunt. The air was fresh and the sky was clear, and if Theo ignored the templar crest on his uncles’ livery, he could pretend he was free.

“You’re a strange one,” Declan said when they set camp for the night. “You threw a bigger fit than most possessed mages I’ve seen, but now you actually seem pleased to be here.”

Theo settled down on the ground and leaned against a log. He pulled out his pocket knife and began stripping the bark from a small stack of twigs. “If I told Father I wanted to go, he would have found a reason for me to stay behind,” he said with a shrug. “Or Brother Madron would have found more work for me to do just to keep me back.”

Cadan laughed from across the fire. “Most brothers don’t know what the outdoors is… They know fresh air and sunlight about as intimately as they know a woman.” Declan laughed at that, and Theo just blushed and kept stripping twigs. Gavriel told him that some of the servant girls in the manor, and even some of the town girls they saw at Chantry services looked at him. From the way Gave talked it seemed like it should mean something to a thirteen-year-old boy.

“You know not all templars are warriors,” Cadan said once he’d finished stoking the fire. “And not all of us serve inside a Circle.”

Theo sighed. “Mum doesn’t want me becoming a templar,” he said. He inspected the twig in his hand, looking for any crookedness. “Did Father have you take me out to try and recruit me?”

Declan and Cadan looked at one another. “It can’t hurt to have options.”

It was Theo’s turn to laugh. “My whole life’s being planned for me. What does it matter?” But it did matter… even the fact that his mother insisted he would not be a templar. It was bad enough that it was pretty much non-negotiable that his only purpose in this world was to go serve the Chantry, but to have both of his parents trying to dictate in what regard…

“What are you doing?” Declan asked instead, nodding to the pile of stripped twigs.

“Making arrows.”

“Where’d you learn that? I can’t imagine Brother Madron would have that filed under teachable skills,” Cadan said with a laugh.

Theo shrugged. “Just picked it up watching. People say and do a lot of things when they don’t know you’re there.” It was one perk to being invisible. And yet he was still visible _enough_ that they knew he was there, and he knew they’d eventually send him away. He sighed and examined the stick in his hand. There would be no salvaging that one. He tossed it into the fire and watched the flames consume it.

They ate a simple dinner under the stars. Cadan and Declan told stories about Theo’s father and his other uncle, Brandon, and what it was like growing up as the two youngest. He smiled and laughed, but knew they were just trying to make him feel better about his inevitable future.   And something else nagged at him. He hadn’t seen much of Gavriel lately. His parents were harried; some weeks his mother didn’t go to Chantry services, nor did Gave. When Theo experimented and said it wasn’t fair that Gave got to stay home, his mother actually started crying and his father scowled.

By now Gwyn was married and Thisbe had been matched to a young man from Wycome and had gone to take her lessons there prior to the marriage. Matty had long been out of the manor, and Theo had never met Maranda; he sometimes wondered if she even existed. But it was only Theo and Gave at home now, and he found it strange that, at eighteen, Gave had yet to be matched off as well. And it probably had something to do with their parents’ strange attitudes.

The next day Theo risked taking out his own bow when they prepared to go out on the hunt. “Master Blain has been showing me a few things here and there,” he said with a shrug when Uncle Cadan asked where he’d gotten such a bow.

“You’re telling me you made that?” Cadan asked, and Theo nodded. He loosed a few arrows at a hay bale target they’d set up to practice on before actually going out. “Does your father know?”

Theo shrugged. “He’s been preoccupied,” he said. He didn’t want his father to take the bow, or stop archery lessons. But at the same time, if his schoolwork couldn’t impress the man, maybe his craftsmanship could.

“He’s got a lot on his mind lately,” Declan said and earned a glare from Cadan. Declan sighed. “Maker’s hairy balls, Cay. How much more can be kept from the kid?”

Theo didn’t even protest being called a kid. He didn’t feel like he was really getting any older, or being treated anymore grown up. His mother still fussed over him; his father still ignored him, unless Theo gave him a reason to reprimand him. Sometimes he did, if just to remind the Bann of Ostwick that he still had a third son.

Cadan gathered their arrows. “Your brother’s sick,” he said at last. “Very sick. They’re not sure he’ll survive.”

“They’ve called in healers from the Circle,” Declan added.

“Is my sister one of them?” Theo asked. He’d never met Maranda, and the way his family spoke of her, it was as if she’d died.

“I’m not sure what school she excels in,” Declan told him. “But your family thought it best that you be away from home. In the event of the worst.”

Theo nodded and packed his arrows into his quiver before shouldering his bow. A strange cold settled in his gut. Not fear for his brother. Guilt. Matty was the heir to Ostwick, and Gavriel was the ‘spare’. And if Gavriel died, Theo would be the spare. They couldn’t send him away anymore if they actually needed him.

His uncles took his general silence through the rest of the trip as a cue that he was worried for his older brother. And he was, he truly was. He would swear to the Maker that he didn’t want Gave to die; Gave was probably the only one of his siblings who’d ever acted like one.

But if Gavriel did die…

A few days later they began the trek back to Ostwick with the spoils of their trip. Theo sunk into himself, dreading the return home. No matter what awaited him when he got home, it wasn’t good. He spent the nights tossing in his bedroll under the stars, wrestling with his guilt and jealousy and trying to pray, but the words of the Chant felt hollow and meaningless. Everything Brother Madron had been teaching him had become little more than routine, something he had to endure. The fervent faith of his father, and the rest of his family, had been watered down to almost nothing.

And he was only thirteen.

He was probably doomed. Only indentured service to the Chantry could save his soul now, but… he wasn’t even sure if that was a price he wanted to pay.

Uncle Cadan and Uncle Declan tried to keep things lively, but as they crossed into Ostwick and drew nearer to the Trevelyan estate, they were silent. Theo kept his horse reined in at a walk and looked about him. It was an overcast day and the air smelled of the ocean: it was likely a storm was rolling in. The yards were quiet and the stable hands solemn when they came out to attend to Theo and his uncles.

They walked up the path toward the manor house, which suddenly looked imposing against the gray sky. He scanned the turrets nervously. The banners snapping in the wind were grey and light blue—not black. Theo breathed a sigh of relief even as his stomach clenched up with a feeling he could not place. His steps became faster, and then he was running for the doors even as his uncles called after him.

He made for Gavriel’s room, ignoring the surprised protests of the servants as he tracked mud through the halls. He was still in his dirty traveling clothes and the dust of the roads clung to his hands and hair. His pulse thudded in his ears and it was hard to get a good breath.

Gavriel’s door was ajar. Theo peeked inside. His mother sat at the bedside, face pale and haggard. It was not something he was used to seeing, and it made the ache inside him grow. But nothing hurt more than seeing his father kneeling at the foot of Gave’s bed, deep in prayer, with tears running down his face.

“Master Theo, you shouldn’t be here,” a servant said, trying to shoo him from the door.

“That’s my brother in there,” he snapped. He felt bad, sort of. The servant was only doing his job. But seeing his parents so drained and worried pained him. And he wondered if they’d feel the same if it was him lying there.

Bann Trevelyan opened the door and glared at them. Theo was thirteen and growing: his limbs were gangly and he was getting taller, but his father still managed to glower down at him with disapproval in his dark eyes. “You’re home.”

Theo just blinked and held his breath, waiting for the inevitable tirade. But his father just sighed before pushing past him and storming down the hall. Theo was left to wonder if it was relief or disappointment in his father’s voice. He peeked into the room; his mother looked up and tried to smile. When he hesitated, she waved him in.

“Father’s probably going to let Uncle Declan have it,” he said in greeting. He stared at the floor, wondering what he was doing here. There wasn’t anything he could do, and now that he was home, he wondered why he’d been so anxious to return.

Then his mother was hugging him close to her in spite of his dusty clothes and muddy shoes. She smoothed back his hair and took a step back to look at him: _really_ look at him, not just glance at him. He was as tall as she was, and she still looked at him with tears in her eyes, as if he were still a little boy. After the way his father had brushed him off it made a lump come to his throat. “Welcome home, sweetheart,” she said at last. “Don’t worry; your uncles can handle your father.”

“I’m not worried about them,” he said and forced a smile he could not feel. He made himself look at his older brother. Gavriel was sleeping. His skin was ashen, his lips bloodless. His breathing was shallow, but he was indeed breathing. One arm lay atop the pile of blankets, bandaged from where blood had been let. The air in the room was warm, kind of stuffy and smelling of herbs. “Is it contagious?” he asked when he could think of nothing else.

His mother shook her head. “All healers have assured us it’s not catching. He just seemed to be wasting away,” she said. She sniffed and blinked away her tears. “But they seem to have stalled the illness and are hopeful that he’ll recover.”

“Can I talk to him?” Theo asked nervously. “Can he hear me?”

“He’s resting, but it’s good to let him know you’re here,” she said with a loving, haggard look that said she’d been by Gavriel’s side for a long while. Theo realized she had lines around her eyes and her hair was graying at the temples. A few flyaway hairs had escaped from her bun. She looked careworn. Hopeful, but sad.

She left him alone with his brother, and Theo took a seat at the bedside. Gave opened his eyes and flashed Theo a hint of a smile. “She gone?” Theo nodded. “I was getting tired of faking being asleep,” Gave said. He had trouble keeping his eyes open.

“Everything’s a joke to you,” Theo accused, but he was smiling, grateful that Gavriel still seemed to be himself in spite of his illness.

“Gotta laugh. Otherwise I’d cry,” Gavriel said. “Tell me about your trip.”

Dusk fell and Theo kept talking. Gavriel had a way of listening to him, and it just felt good to be listened to—even after his brother drifted off to sleep. A servant rapped lightly on the door and motioned for Theo to leave as another round of healers came in. Theo stood and rested his hand on Gavriel’s arm. “I’m glad you didn’t die,” he whispered.

And he was; but there was still the small, bitter part of him that wondered what would have happened if his brother had died, and his family had actually needed him.


	6. An Unquenchable Flame

_Chapter 6: An Unquenchable Flame_

Every day Theo woke up wondering if today would be _the_ day. He would open his eyes and see the wan early morning light coming through the windows. He would hold his breath and listen to the silence, waiting for it to be broken by footsteps, or a voice, anything other than the usual sounds of the household waking. He would flatten himself against the mattress and pull the quilt up over his head and keep listening, holding his breath until he nearly saw stars. When no one came for him he cautiously slipped out of bed and dressed, then sneaked into the secret passages he’d come to know so well. He would look for signs that the dust and cobwebs had been disturbed, and would feel a pang of relief in his chest when all was the same as he’d left it the previous morning. He would listen at keyholes and hidden doorways, and when all seemed normal he would reappear just in time to take some breakfast and head to his lessons.

Today was not the day he would be sent away.

He’d grown comfortable with his rituals; they kept him sharp and alert. It helped him coach himself to be ready for that moment when he was officially told he was no longer part of the household.

Not even the servants had to worry about being summarily dismissed the way he did.

While once Theo had desperately sought his father’s approval, these days he just avoided the man as much as possible. He remembered the conversation he’d overheard once, shortly after it was clear that Gavriel would recover from his strange illness.

“Your second son is well,” Brother Madron had said. “Theodane is fourteen, quite past the age most acolytes come to the Chantry.”

Theo wanted nothing more than to run, far and fast; but he’d stayed. Even as the anger had bubbled inside of him he’d stayed.

“The healers warn of a relapse.”

Brother Madron sighed. “I don’t know how much longer I can curry favor with the Revered Mother. She is… impatient.”

“Surely she understands the difficult predicament the family is in.”

“She does, but she’d also ask that you understand your position as the Bann of Ostwick, and therefore your responsibility to the Chantry.” Brother Madron looked at the floor when he said this.

“Then she can tell me that herself.”

Brother Madron was gone the next day; it was one of the best days of Theo’s life. He spent it in town with Master Blain, shooting in his practice yards and impressing the locals. “You could hire me as an apprentice,” Theo told him hopefully. “I’d work my ass off. And you wouldn’t even know I’m here. I’ve got a lot of practice.”

Master Blain smiled ruefully. “There’s nothing I’d like more, Theo. Really.”

“But the Chantry thing.”

“Yes.”

“So why bother continuing to train me?” Theo asked, eyeing the target before pulling back on the bow and releasing his arrow. He hit near the center and swore under his breath. That should have hit the middle.

“Because… well, I don’t know,” Blain said. “Maybe the Maker has a sense of humor?”

The following day a new, older brother had been assigned to the manor, and the Revered Mother herself was there. Theo hid in the passage behind his father’s office, both amused and afraid. They wouldn’t have assigned a new brother to tutor him if she meant to haul him away that day, right?

It was mostly arguing about politics and such, Chantry quotations, tired arguments Theo had heard over and over again, and he was starting to doze off.

“A mistake.” Alick’s voice was cold and hard. “That’s all this has been, is a mistake.”

“The Maker has his reasons, Bann Trevevlyan,” Mother Marya said. “He knows why he’s given you and your family these trials.”

“I know. But you know my eldest daughter is a mage, and for the last fourteen years I’ve been preparing to give away my youngest son.” He sighed. “And now we don’t know what will happen with Gavriel. If we never had another child…”

It had been a long time since Theo had wanted to cry over anything his father said. He’d gotten used to being alternately ignored and reprimanded when he acted out. He rose to his feet and slipped through the passages, then out of the house and to the stables. A mistake. All a mistake. That was all he was to his family.

And so he’d developed his morning ritual over the last two years, listening, waiting, breathing a cautious sigh of relief each time. His new tutor was old, less zealous than Brother Madron, and content to let Theo finish the day’s work with little fuss before he turned to his own research and Theo headed out to shoot.

This morning was his sixteenth name day. He woke as he did every morning, listened… and his heart caught in his chest like fabric snagging on a nail when he heard footsteps. They neared his door and he swallowed and debated rolling off the bed and hiding and then someone was knocking. When he didn’t answer, the door latch clicked. The hinges creaked. He wished he’d hidden. Or even had his pocket knife nearby. He didn’t know what he’d do with it, and he’d probably be damned forever for threatening a Chantry member…

“Hey. Theo, wake up.” It was Gavriel. Theo heard him come in, heard the door click shut behind him. Heard the footsteps come closer. Then Gave was yanking the covers down and grinning. “Happy name day, little brother,” he said with a grin.

Theo squinted in the bright morning sunlight. Gave had recovered, but still looked thinner and paler than before his illness. He tired more quickly, but was determined to return to life as it had been before. “I was sleeping,” he said instead of letting Gave know how touched he was that his brother had remembered, or how scared he’d been that Gave was someone from the Chantry. Or their father.

“Bullshit,” Gave said. “Get up. I’ve got a full day planned to celebrate.” He nudged Theo’s shoulder.

Theo decided that enjoying Gavriel’s attention was better than dwelling on the bitterness that had rooted itself deep within him. He rolled out of bed and began fishing clothes out of the armoire. “What do you have planned?” he asked, curious.

“A cure for what ails you,” Gavriel said with a mysterious, crooked grin that made Theo wonder if he should be grateful, or worried.

 

* * *

 

“She’s pretty,” Gavriel said, angling his chin toward one of the serving girls in the tavern.

Theo looked over, and the serving girl caught his eye and smiled. He blushed and looked away quickly. “Yeah, she is,” he said with a shrug.

“I could tell her it’s your name day,” Gavriel said with a wink. “I bet she’d probably kiss you. Look at the way she’s looking at you. Maker’s balls, I wish I had half the girls in Ostwick looking at me the way they look at you when I was your age.” He smiled, but then sighed. Once he’d recovered sufficiently, a marriage had been arranged with a young lady from Markham; it wasn’t the strongest alliance, but the best that could be made under the circumstances. And unfortunately, both Gavriel and Lissa knew it.

“Would you have rather married an Ostwick girl?” Theo asked, finishing off his drink, and nodding for another. Gavriel was buying, and he didn’t know how many more carefree days he had left.

“I get the need for alliances, but yeah, what’s wrong with the Ostwick girls?” he asked. “Maybe we can convince Father that you’re necessary at home, get you married off to someone from around here. There’s got to be at least one girl in town you’ve had your eyes on. I mean, you’re sixteen,” he said, as if that should mean something.

Theo just shrugged because there weren’t any that caught his eye. And even if they did, what point was there? The serving girl set his fresh drink down, and he immediately began drinking to avoid Gavriel’s questions. And Gavriel had lots of questions, so Theo kept drinking. It was easier to shrug and take a swig than to try and find answers that he didn’t have.

When they left the tavern it was sundown, and the merchant stalls had closed down for the night. A few shops remained open. “Honestly, I just want to be a bowyer’s apprentice,” Theo told Gavriel, his words slightly slurred and the cobblestone street slanting under his feet. “Forget marrying off. Forget this Chantry stuff. I just want to make bows and shoot arrows. I don’t think that’s too much to ask,” he proclaimed as he tripped over his own foot.

Gavriel caught him and laughed. “You only say that because you’ve never had a woman to polish your blade,” he said.

“I don’t use a sword.”

“You are so drunk,” Gavriel said, slinging Theo’s arm over his shoulder. They were the same height, but Theo was having trouble standing up straight, so it was a task. “Come on.” They stumbled up the cobblestone street to a section of town Theo didn’t frequent, but Gave’s sure step said that his brother did. Gavriel helped him to the door of another tavern, but this one was more subdued, and, Theo noticed, filled with women. A few men sat in quiet, darkened corners talking with a woman; occasionally they’d both get up and disappear up the stairs, or through a doorway.

Gavriel led him inside and to a table with a candle burning in a small glass holder, and ordered wine for the both of them. “I’m still drunk,” Theo murmured to his brother, but Gavriel just shrugged it off. “Lissa won’t like this,” he added, and again, Gavriel shrugged.

“We’re both miserable, and it’s your name day,” Gavriel said. “You and I are both entitled to a bit of fun.”

“Did you say it was someone’s name day?”

Theo glanced up to see a lovely woman staring down at him with wide, clear blue eyes. Her golden hair was long and wavy and she wore it loose, unlike most of the women here that he’d seen. She took a seat at their table without being invited, and focused the full power of her eyes on Theo. She leaned in slightly, her hand creeping toward his arm as she chattered and laughed and he tried to keep up, wondering if he was supposed to converse with her or just listen, bewildered.

And then she took him by the hand and led him toward the staircase and he looked helplessly back at Gavriel, who smiled and waved as another golden-haired woman practically draped herself over his lap.

 

* * *

 

Theo hadn’t quite known what to expect when Gavriel waved a cheerful farewell, but it certainly wasn’t _that_. “Did you like Kelwyn?” Gave asked as they walked home.

Theo just shrugged and blushed; it was enough for Gavriel, who just nodded knowingly and chuckled to himself. Kelwyn was lovely; he could appreciate her beauty, but even when she’d guided his hands to her bared, supple breasts and whispered dirty things to him, nothing had happened the way Gavriel had said it would on so many occasions. It was all Theo could do to keep from dying of embarrassment while he wondered if something was wrong with him.

She’d been doing _something_ with her hands when the door opened and she swore. Theo looked up and saw a handsome male elf standing there in the open door, grinning slightly. “Dammit Adwen!” she’d snapped. “Learn to lock the door,” Adwen had said. He had reddish gold hair, hair the color of a candle flame. His dark eyes were warm and teasing and his lithe body moved with more grace than Kelwyn did. But for all his teasing, the very tips of his pointed ears were slightly red with embarrassment.

He was beautiful.

_Then_ Theo felt something. He couldn’t take his eyes off Adwen. Kelwyn looked between the two men before smiling. “Why not?” she asked, after a moment of thought. She beckoned Adwen in; he had the sense to lock the door behind him. “This one’s on me,” she said. “It _is_ your name day, after all.”

Theo had quite a bit to think about when he finally fell into bed that night, after making sure Gavriel made it back to his rooms. Gavriel was still drunk; he’d probably been drinking the entire time Theo had been with Adwen. Theo didn’t mind; it kept Gave from asking too many questions that Theo himself didn’t have the answers to.


	7. Heaven Filled With Silence

_Chapter 7: Heaven Filled With Silence_

It was a compromise, enough to keep the Revered Mother, and by extension the Grand Cleric, happy for the time; and to keep Bann Trevelyan relaxed in the event that Gavriel’s illness returned and the worst should happen. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Even Theo.

It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than being shuttled off to the Chantry for good. And as an initiate, Theo had access to parts of the Chantry that he’d never seen before. The Sister tasked with showing him around had let slip that nearly all Chantries were set up the same way, which meant that once he knew the layout well enough, Theo could easily slip in and out of any Chantry.

Nothing was set in stone, but he was already planning his eventual escape.

He didn’t know what the state of the Chantry was in Orlais or Ferelden; but in the Free Marches, the Chantry was on edge. He’d gotten good at listening, being so quiet that people tended to forget he was present; he absorbed rumors and gossip and facts. He rarely saw his uncles anymore; they’d been dispatched to guard the Ostwick Circle, where his sister Maranda lived. Kirkwall, to the west, was a crucible of tension between mages and templars. Rumor had it that the Knight Commander wanted to annul the Kirkwall Circle.

Then the Kirkwall Chantry exploded, and with it, the rest of the world.

Suddenly cataloguing texts and making sure the censers were polished weren’t important; the censers were always in use as the Chantry filled with terrified parishioners praying and crying to the Maker. Theo stayed behind the scenes, listening to the steady stream of voices from the sanctuary, lifted in dissonant prayers. He caught snatches of the Chant. The Revered Mother tried to preach sermons at first, and then gave up and guided the Chant and comforted the frightened.

The Chantry was filled at all hours of the day and night, and the quiet that had made his work bearable was long gone.

The louder they prayed, the less the Maker seemed willing to answer. _This is my answer,_ the silence seemed to say.

Theo knew what it was to cry out in desperation and receive no answer. He should have been disconcerted by the Maker’s silence, and sympathetic to the peoples’ prayers. But he couldn’t feel it.

* * *

           

It was late, long past the time Theo normally left the Chantry most nights. He didn’t know quite where he belonged anymore. He was years older than the regular initiates, and not quite a brother. The Chantry did not hold his leash; but he never felt quite welcome or comfortable at the Trevelyan manor anymore. But this was one of the first nights in a very long time—probably years—that the sanctuary was empty. He paused in the dim light of the low-burning candles. He was so accustomed to the scent of incense that he hardly smelled it anymore. His footfalls echoed on the flagstones as he headed for the front door.

The hinges creaked and the door opened, letting in a breeze of fresh, salty sea air that made him ache for his freedom. His stomach flipped and his heart leaped in his throat when he saw his father standing on the threshold.

They faced each other for a long, silent moment. Theo dropped his eyes to the worn crimson runner at his feet and felt his cheeks burning. He could never shake the feeling that he’d done something wrong, simply by existing. Finally his father cleared his throat. “Come pray with me, son,” Bann Trevelyan said in his stiff, formal voice, as he strode past Theo and let the door close behind him.

Theo inhaled the last of the fresh air as he turned to follow his father. The two knelt in the quiet before the prayer altar. Bann Trevelyan lit a candle. “How shall your children apology make? We have forgotten, in ignorance stumbling, only a light in this darkened time breaks. Call to your children, teach us your greatness. What has been forgotten has not yet been lost,” he prayed from the Canticle of Andraste. Theo kept his eyes closed and mumbled along with his father.

They sat in silence for a long while. Theo was sure he could hear his blood running in his veins. He wanted to get up and leave; or say something; or find an excuse to duck into the back. But being around his father paralyzed him.

“There is to be a conclave held in Ferelden,” Bann Trevelyan finally said. “Her Perfection seeks one last effort to reconcile the mages and the templars.” It wasn’t news to Theo; he’d overheard some of the clerics and sisters discussing it. “Ostwick has always served the Chantry; and the Trevelyan family most of all.” Also not news. Theo held back a sigh and stared at Andraste’s marble feet.

Bann Trevelyan looked up at Andraste’s bowed head. From this angle he could probably see her face, probably imagine her tears of pity for the Maker’s wayward children. “What comes of this conclave will affect the future of all of Thedas. Our family’s devotion to the Chantry must be evident, and our interests must be seen to.”

Theo nodded. He was a bit bewildered by what his father was sharing with him, when normally the Bann was content to pretend he barely existed. But he was mostly tired. He wanted to go to sleep, have a few hours where he didn’t have to pretend to care about Chantry business.

“You will go as an envoy of our family.”

Theo looked up. He felt the blood drain from his face and turn cold in his veins. “I can’t.” Thoughts of Chantry vestments and hours of prayer and the careful dance of politics made him feel sick. His father’s face was almost sinister in the flickering shadows cast by the prayer candles. He couldn’t explain his hesitations or his reservations, at least not in a way his father would understand.

“Your uncles will accompany you, as well as a handful of our best troops.”

“I can’t go, I don’t want-“

“When the conclave is over you will serve as a full brother.”

“But—“

“It took me a great deal of effort to curry enough favor with the interim Grand Cleric to allow you to skip the rest of novitiate training,” Bann Trevelyan said without looking at his son. “This is nonnegotiable. We all have our duty to the Maker, Theodane.”

Theo’s mouth was dry, but his palms were sweating. He felt the burning at the back of his eyes and was terrified he might start crying in front of his father. He would be twenty-three soon, as the summer waned and autumn approached. He was a grown man and could not— _would not_ —cry in front of his father.

He watched as his father rose and walked down the nave back toward the entry. “I’ve never mattered to you, have I,” he suddenly croaked out.

Bann Trevelyan stopped. “This is an honor, son,” he said without turning back to Theo.

He didn’t confirm Theo’s accusation. But he didn’t deny it, either.


	8. Their Father's Eye Elsewhere

_Chapter 8: Their Father’s Eye Elsewhere_

Alick did not expect Theodane to speak to him, but it still stung whenever his youngest child happened to glance at him with that baleful expression in his green eyes. Theo was quick, intelligent, and a fine young man, and there was no more Alick could do to hold onto him. This would be the cleanest break for the whole family. That’s what he kept telling himself as the household hurried to pack and prepare for the envoy to the conclave.

He hoped for peace between templars and mages, for the sake of his eldest daughter and for his two youngest brothers. He hoped for a swift resolution, if only to bring Theo safely back to Ostwick. It would be like Maranda all over again. It would hurt, but at least he’d know his child was safe, and still in the Marcher city.

Like so much of the Maker’s will, it wasn’t ideal, but it was bearable. He had to keep telling himself it was the Maker’s will, that the Maker had a purpose and a reason for everything. “He must,” he said, staring at the small effigy of Andraste in the family chapel.

“Believe what you must,” Cordelia said. She stared at her hands in her lap. “I knew this would happen, but… it’s not any easier.”

There were so many things they could have done differently, but Alick knew that nothing would have softened the blow. Even knowing that Maranda was a mage, and in the best place to teach and protect her, didn’t help. Knowing that Gavriel would likely die young hurt. And giving up Theo to the Chantry only twisted the knife in his wounds all the more. It felt like half of his children were only on loan to him.

“I will believe what I must,” he told his wife. He didn’t reach for her, though he wanted to. “I have to believe all of this was for a reason. And perhaps going to the Conclave… seeing the Divine for himself…”

Cordelia sort of smiled, sad and wistful. “It won’t change him. He’s too stubborn, and he wasn’t made for that life. We’ve always known that. Or at least, I’ve always known.” She glanced over at her husband. “I think that you wanted to know that. But you didn’t let yourself. You were always too stubborn as well.”

Alick sighed. He hadn’t wanted to let himself believe it. But he realized now that nothing would have helped soften the blow. Now it was too late.

A knock sounded on the chapel door, and the hinges creaked. “We’re nearly ready to leave,” Cadan said, poking his head into the room. “They’re just saddling up the horses.”

Alick nodded. “Thank you. May the Maker shine on you.”

“Yeah, and also on you and all of that, but aren’t you going to come say farewell?” Cadan leaned on the doorframe. “Haven’t you been telling us that this is a great honor and all?”

“It is,” Alick said. He stared at his folded hands. He’d considered going; but there were things see to at home, Gave to watch over for signs of illness, appearances to make at the Chantry. Excuses not to have to see his youngest off for good.

“Get your arse out of that pew and come say goodbye,” Cadan said. That did get Alick’s attention, and when he looked, Cadan was smiling. But he was also in his full templar armor, polished and shining in the morning sun, and his eyes were sharp. It had been a long time since the third Trevelyan son had dared challenge his oldest brother. “If I have to drag you I will, Alick,” Cadan said when the silence dragged on.

“Come,” Cordelia said, grasping Alick’s hand and leading him to join Cadan on the walk to the front gate of the manor grounds.

Gavriel waved as his father approached. Theodane was talking with Lissa, his dark hair flopping over his forehead and his hands jammed into his pockets. Alick frowned slightly; Lissa was shamelessly flirting with her brother-in-law. Perhaps sending Theo away would be for the best, if only to avoid any uncomfortable situations. At least Theo wasn’t flirting back.

“My children,” Alick announced, and Lissa blushed furiously and bowed her head as she stepped back from Theo. Theo glanced at his father, sighed, and crossed his arms over his chest. “If the weather holds you will make excellent time to Ferelden,” he said, more to Cadan and Declan, who’d joined them, than to Theo. “Send word when you reach the conclave.”

“Yes my lord,” Declan said with a bow. “It will be an honor to represent our family before the Most Holy.” He reached to shake his oldest brother’s hand, then impulsively pulled Alick into a hug. Alick slammed against his thick breastplate with a ‘humph’ as Declan clapped him on the shoulder.

Cadan hugged him next. “Watch over him,” Alick said, staring at Theo. He took a deep breath. “My guards will see that he does not slip away. They have their orders. He’s a Trevelyan through and through, stubborn to the core.” He tried to ignore the pang in his chest as he looked past Cadan, and to where Theo was checking his saddle once more, a bow and quiver slung over his shoulder and dressed in the livery of House Trevelyan.

“Why don’t you tell him that?” Cadan gently suggested as he turned to finish readying his own horse.

Alick straightened up and made his way over to his son. “Theodane Oliver Trevelyan,” he said, pushing aside his conflicted emotions to sound stern. “You go to stand before Her Perfection, the Most Holy servant of Andraste, as an envoy of this house. This is a pilgrimage of honor. As you go, know the peace of the Maker’s benediction.”

Theo blinked a couple times and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Um, thanks,” he finally said without meeting his father’s eyes. He turned and stepped up into one stirrup and then hoisted himself onto his horse. He rubbed the horse’s neck and clucked soothingly to it, even though the horse was calm.

There were so many things to say: apologies to make, explanations to give, forgiveness to request. The late summer sun beat down and a fresh, salty sea breeze wafted on the currents of the wind. Alick turned away and headed for the manor. He heard the jangle of armor and harnesses as his brothers and the house guards mounted up, and he heard the clip clop of hooves on the cobblestones as the caravan began to head out.

He did not turn, though he so badly wanted to watch the convoy, to see his son one last time, to wave farewell. Instead he walked straight into his study where he locked the door and collapsed behind his desk. He rubbed his temples and tried to steady his breathing. Theo was in the Maker’s hands now. The Maker’s will would be done, and Alick would accept it as he always had. He only hoped the Maker would be kind, and make his sacrifices worthwhile.

 

_The Beginning._


End file.
